Bookseller

Fading Santiago afternoon,
and you,
in a world of mirrors,
a repeating infinity of letters.
“Poetry,” I told you,
and you gave me a devil’s smile.
The words you recited
made my blood
turn to swarms of butterflies
my veins electric
with their flight.
With no name to call you,
you were Ulysses.
Dark vagabond eyes followed me
and knew which letters
would scratch me open
perfectly, divinely,
to my core.
“Give me something
for eighteen hours of flight
and the heartbreak of departure”
I asked, as I left, in melancholy August.
You saw the tears in my throat
and gave me Neruda,
knowing that I will return,
seeking you and your name.